Tag: blogging

The quiet in my house is the opposite of my mind. I can’t shut off my brain. “You hardly use your brain, it should be a simple thing to shut it off.”

It isn’t.

Ever since my return home, I feel alone. The ghosts from war torn lands sometimes seem to be my only friends. That’s pathetic. I sound like a loser when I allow these thoughts to run through my mind.

It’s after five in the evening, and I am sitting in the recliner. I turn the lights off, except for my corner lamp. The A/C hums and Rambo: Last Blood plays on my television.

The longer I am home, the more I wonder about my return from the sand pits of Iraq. I’m home, I should be grateful to be alive and whole in body. I am. Many of my friends never returned, I sure do miss them.

My struggles with my thoughts and the chaos within seem to play throughout the latest Rambo movie. However, it barely scratches the surface of the pain that plagues so many veterans.

It is of small comfort that I am not alone in this struggle.

This pandemic has drained me. We all are shut-in. Sometimes, it feels as if I am being smothered by the memories of a life I left long ago. As if someone is holding a pillow over my mouth and nose.

Now, there is more trouble. Racist cops kill an unarmed black man. Or should I say, one racist cop killed him? Either way, a man lies dead because of the hatred in another man’s heart.

As I watch the world implode around me, I have to wonder what my friends would think if they’d survived. Would they be happy with the way things turned out? Would they wonder if their sacrifice was in vain?

I survived and I would rather have my friends back.

There are many reasons why people are protesting the murder of an innocent man. I can understand their anger, their frustration with the justice system is not wrong or invalid.

Burning down communities, destroying the life’s work of people who had nothing to do with the murder is wrong. Yes, I can separate the two. Many innocent people have been hurt by their rage. Yes, their rage is justified. No one, regardless of race, should ever be murdered because of their skin pigmentation.

We are all God’s children.

My brothers, those who never returned, would not approve of the actions of this police officer. They would not agree with the wholesale destruction by the rioters and looters. It is possible to stand against injustice without robbing, looting, and being a public nuisance.

My friends would stand in the trenches and fight injustice, at home and abroad. All I can do is fight to keep their memories alive and hope for a better tomorrow.

Like this:

“I like to think my loneliness hasn’t metamorphosized into bitterness, but I may be lying to myself.” As I sit in my truck in the back of Ole man Johnston’s corn field, I considered the plight of my life. At 47, I’ve aged past my prime, Heck, I can’t do anything with the fervency I once did.

My bed hears me grunt to get up and groan when I lie down at night. My bones crack so much it could be mistaken for gunfire. I am here today to help Mr. Johnston pull corn. As I look out over the ten rows of corn, I just want to drive home and put on my PJ’s.

Such is the life of a retired man who hasn’t hit 50 yet.

Ah, but you didn’t read all this way to hear about corn pulling, did you? More than likely, you wanted to find out if my loneliness has escalated to a point where I am just a bitter old man. Between the Monster energy drink and Tylenol PM, I’ll tell you the truth.

I don’t know.

So much for being a paragon of truth. My nothing-burger answer is perhaps the closest thing I have to honesty. In retrospect, I would be hard pressed to say I am not bitter. Life has dealt harshly with me in the past, but it deals crappy cards to everyone. Facebook wisdom would have me believe that I can choose how to respond to bad situations. I suppose it would be dependent upon the victim’s perspective.

Perhaps, I haven’t matured to the point where I can say wholeheartedly that I’m not bitter about my failure to launch into the thin atmosphere of love. I had a successful enough career in the military. Most days, I am satisfied with my life and my ability to adapt to the various situations which arise.

Mr. Johnston waves his hand to get my attention, I guess it’s time for me to get this corn pulled. Gingerly, I step out of my truck.

“Yes sir?”

“I ain’t feeling it, son. I will give you a call sometime next week to get the corn pulled. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes sir, sounds good to me. You let me know, and I’ll come back and help you.”

“Alright, son. You have a good weekend.”

I barely conceal my happiness. With a tossed hand in the air, Mr. Johnston walks back toward his cabin. I sit in my truck and watch the old man trudge slowly to his porch. I notice his stooped posture, and I imagine me at his age. Time has wrinkled his face, turned his remaining hair white, and dimmed his eyesight. Still, he loves to farm.

Mr. Johnston and I became neighbors after I moved home from Colorado. He had walked over to my new home and introduced himself. In time, we became friends. I was there when his wife Gladys passed away. He was there when my dog died. Time made us friends, but loneliness made us brothers.

After his wife passed, Mr. Johnston was lost. I would find him crying in his barn, talking to his cows. “Oh, Gladys would dote on your calf. She loved ‘em blonde.” About a year after Gladys had changed her address to Heaven, George met him a nice woman who helped him shake conversating with the livestock. Now, he whistles while we work and has invested in a cellphone so his new lady can reach him anytime.

I’ve been a bachelor for almost a decade. Time has packed weight onto my semi-muscular frame, it’s thinned my hair, and brought new ailments to keep me on my toes. What it hasn’t brought me is someone who wants to go on adventures together. Perhaps, I am destined to be alone. Just me, the cows, my dog, and the rocking chair watching the years drift by.

Am I bitter about how my life turned out? It sure sounds like it.

As I drove home, I considered my options. There aren’t many for a person who is, according to his doctors, morbidly obese. Or bald. Or broken. However, I thought I might try to improve some of my less -than -genteel qualities. I could smile more. Maybe I could read a few books and become a master conversationalist.

It sounds an awful lot like work.

The Lord knows my plate is packed to the limit with projects, that I need to get done before winter sets in. My barn needs patching, the roof needs to be replaced on my house, and the fence needs mending.

Like this:

“How many years have I languished in this prison?” The scorching rays of sunlight seemed to be beamed directly into my eyes. Why not? It’s not like I don’t spend enough time being tormented in this place. Rock walls with jagged edges line my cell. My home away from home is dank, dimly lit, and filled with rats. Yeah, rats.

I have no bed, a dirty mattress is flung into the corner, and a bucket is given to us to relieve ourselves. Between the stench and the rat-chewed mattress, I gave up hope I would ever leave this place. I’ve carved the days I’ve spent in this sewer into the rock face.

Guards fractured my wrist when they last visited. It never healed correctly; the injuries seldom do. We are often bruised, battered, and left for dead. Escape is a fanciful daydream never realized. Outside my cell, screams of the tortured filled the hallways. “The sound of hatred pulsated within these walls. Fractured bones, fractured souls, death came for me from the darkness.”

The Keeper of this prison appeared outside of my cell. His blackened eyes, broken nose and gap-toothed smile are pressed against the bars of my cell. Words are not exchanged. My every move is observed and noted. After a prolonged period, he spun around and walked away. Two type of guards milled around my cell. The usual guards are lightly armed with tasers, and batons. They are replaced with black-suited, heavy-armored titans.

These behemoths are densely muscled, and heavily armed. “Why have the titans been deployed?” Usually, the juggernauts are released upon “high-valued” targets. These unfortunate souls are considered well-informed, hoarders of information, and of despicable character. I glanced at each guard and wondered who they were here to break. My question is answered by two titans as they arrived at my cell. One of the guards opened my cell door and gestured for me to come out.

“Prisoner Alpha 001 move forward to my location.”

I moved forward until I stood before him. He raised his arms, and I followed suit. His partner stood behind me and searched me from head to toe. Satisfied with the results of his search, I am marched into the Keeper’s office.

“Stand here, prisoner.” One of the gigantic titans gestured at a place on the floor and I stood there, awaiting the torment I would endure. The door closed and I am left alone in the office. As I looked around the workplace, I noticed there are no rats. I am so mesmerized by the lack of rodents; I missed the door being opened. The Keeper appeared in front of me, before I realized his presence.

“Prisoner Alpha 001, you are charged with violations of disturbing the peace, felonious assault, and manslaughter. You’re sentenced to 35 years of torture provided by yours truly.”

“Yeah, that’s what the judge sentenced me to.”

“You’re judged, declared guilty, and shalt be pummeled into submission.”

“You’ve agitated me for the last time, Keeper.”

One of the titan’s walked up behind me and swept my legs out from under me. The Keeper kicked his steel toed boot into my solar plexus and the wind rushed out of me. Both titans grasped me by the arms and snatched me to my feet. The Keeper slammed his gauntlets into my ribs. The broken bones splintered and then he went to work on my face. My jaws snapped at the hinges, and shattered teeth fall out of my mouth.

“What inspired perspective do you have to share now, Alpha?”

Blood seeped out of my mouth; my breath comes in ragged gulps. I smiled through my busted lips. I mumbled a few words, but they are choked off in my larynx.

“What?”

“You shortened my sentence. Thank you, Keeper.”

With a frustrated shout, The Keeper whipped out a knife and slammed it repeatedly into my torso. The titans released me, and I crumbled to the floor. I laughed and The Keeper stormed out of the office. As my blood leaked out on the ground, and my life slowly drained from my body; I heard the scrambled footfalls of rodents.

Like this:

Visor pulled low, I glanced across the crowd of people on the verge of rioting. Amassed, in the middle of the ocean of folk, stood one lone man on the hood of a beat down Toyota truck. He was armed with a gas mask, bullhorn and righteous indignation.

In Arabic, he shouted for us to go home. The ocean of people swelled with the chant, and they trudged in our direction. Like mindless zombies, they drew closer and closer to our position. I shoved a riot control grenade into my grenade launcher and took up a position away from the rest of my team. The lone man, whom I nicknamed Toyota, charged out of the sea of people and confronted me. He gestured wildly in my direction, while he lifted the bullhorn to shout more threats. The crowd roared with his chant and tempers flared with the desert heat.

“Do I feel threatened? Well, yes I do.”

Without a word spoken, I lifted the grenade launcher and shot the ringleader in the chest. The rubber grenade flew true and hit Toyota in the torso. He crashed to the ground; tiny shards of bone protruded from his robe. I walked over to him and knelt beside him. Groans escaped his lips, and I waved at him.

“You okay, man?”

“Ahhh…”

“Hey dude, are you okay? What happened?”

He brushed my hand away and continued to groan. As a trained combat lifesaver, I started the steps of evaluating and treating a casualty. I treated the instigator for shock and loaded him in a vehicle. The medic checked my work and gave me a nod.

“We’ll take it from here.”

“Yeah, alright.”

The crowd had slowly dispersed and only a few diehards had stuck around to see what else would happen. In the distance an angry Lieutenant stormed toward my team and me.

“What in the name of all things holy, do you think you’re doing?”

I snapped to attention and whipped out a professional salute.

“Sir, I prevented a full-blown riot from occurring by shooting the instigator.”

“Are you brain dead, Sergeant?”

I removed my helmet and tapped the side of my head. Then, I made a show of asking myself questions and answering my queries.

“I don’t think I am allowed to answer your question, sir.”

Angrily, the Lieutenant stepped close enough for me to count his nose hairs. Nostrils flared, he jabbed two fingers into my chest plate.

“You wounded a man on our first mission. Do you realize your action jeopardized all our lives?”

“The Rules of Engagement stated if I felt threatened; I have the right to defend myself, sir. Therefore, today I felt threatened. I defended myself and my team. The riot ended before it ever began. You’re welcome.”

Without a word, the Lieutenant spun around and stomped off. I took several deep breaths and composed myself. As the sun dipped in the western horizon, I walked back to my team.

Like this:

There seemed to be some type of unrest which lingered in the air. As if a visit from the Reaper would happen at any moment. I cradle the handgun and wait for the inexplicable and unexpected to occur. An explanation might be called for, if I survived the doom which loomed on my doorstep.

Iraq didn’t teach me much, but it drove home the need to listen to your instincts. Firefights popped off without advanced notice. If you were caught unaware, you died. There are no words to explain this feeling. Part of me is cagey, another part excited and still another part wonders if I have missed a step.

Red tracer fire would illuminate the moonless nights, the sharp crack of IEDs would send shrapnel into trucks, leaving them mangled and eviscerated heaps.

Survival meant nothing then, it means even less now. The broken husk of a past that can’t stay buried is the only memory left in a life given to battle. When the war was finished, we had nothing to show for the killing, the maiming and the destruction left in our wake. Victory was never an option. From the moment we arrived, we had already lost.

We were sold out before the first bullet was ever fired from a rifle, before the splash of cannon fire demolished entire sections of cities. The cries of the wounded were drowned out by the ching of cash register drawers being opened and the payout being given. It would be hilarious, if so, many people weren’t blown into pieces for no other reason than making some politician richer.

There is blood on the risers, our blood, their blood, human blood. Bloodied, broken but unbowed, we the forgotten will never forget. Shattered upon the blood-soaked sands of a land time has misplaced in the annals of history, we made our stand. For what purpose did we stand? I can’t remember, but I know the cost was too high.

With war, nothing is ever simple. Yet, it should not be so complicated that we can’t achieve victory. Our soldiers deserve a chance to purchase triumph on the battlefield. If the reward is scars and lifelong trauma, then victory must be achieved at all cost. Otherwise, what is the point?

When we returned from the killing fields, life went on. However, it left us behind. We stand in our home country, but our minds never leave the battlefield for long. Family and friends can’t understand why we aren’t “normal” or why we refuse to waste words concerning events that occur in our government and personal life. Because deep down we know people don’t want the answer to these questions. Instead they want to be comforted with lies; so that the illusion is maintained.

Dream your dreams of a life that holds meaning. We stand prepared to do violence on your behalf, so that your children may live a life of peace. Bloodied, broken and unbowed, we are the guardians of freedom, and the meat in the grinder.

Jim Wilson Jr, avid hunter, outdoorsman, tracker, and conservationist climbs from his Toyota 4X4 and grabs his pack out of the bed. Shouldering the pack, Jim grabs his 30-06 and starts his trek into the woods. The smell of early morning dew and earth tingles his senses. Deliberately, he pushes on toward his stand at the top of the hill. Jim has chosen a prime area to hunt this winter. His stand has a tremendous view of the wetlands below him and the sun comes up just left of his line of sight.

“There is nothing greater than being in the woods.”

The early morning is quiet, the only sound is the chattering of squirrels and the occasional call of a sparrow looking for its mate. Jim climbs into the stand, just as dawn breaks. Reaching into the pack, Jim takes out a hot thermos of coffee and pours some of the hot liquid into his canteen cup. The coffee serves a dual purpose, it helps Jim wake up, but it also keeps his hands warm. Binoculars are placed to the right of Jim on a small ledge. Slowly, critters creep out and visit the watering hole below his stand. Alert, Jim keeps an eye out for something to feed his family, but the game is not within the governmental regulations. As the evening approaches, Jim loads his gear into his pack and slowly walks out from his stand. Glancing at his watch pensively, Jim realizes he mistimed his departure.

Night is upon him.

Walking down the hill in the dark proves to be tricky for Jim. The moon is full, but the landscape appears differently at night than it does in the daylight. Jim’s boots keep slipping on the wet grass, and several times he must stop to get his bearings. In the darkness, Jim hears sniffing coming from behind him. “Oh Lord, what is tracking me?” Jim turns and, in the moonlight, he can make out the silhouette of a bear. “Oh, dear Lord…” The bear stands on its hind legs and Jim starts to curl into a fetal position. Without warning, the bear mauls Jim in the ribs. Flesh rips as the razor-sharp claws cut into the skin, the snap of bone resounds through the night air. Gasping, Jim tries to find cover between him and the angry behemoth. Scrambling away, Jim attempts to put distance between him and the bear. The bear isn’t having it, instead of relenting, it charges after Jim.

The bear doesn’t let up in its assault. As Jim scrambles for safety, the bear continues to maul him. Adrenaline surges through Jim’s body as he attempts to get away. Cuts are bleeding from Jim’s torso, legs and hands. In the dark, Jim can make out a cliff. Without another thought, Jim rolls off the side and prays that he isn’t leaping from the pan into the fire.

As Jim rolls off the side of the cliff, he hits a tree on his way down. A branch breaks off and stabs into his side. Grunting in extreme pain, he continues his descent to the bottom. Crashing into the bottom of a ravine, Jim lies there aching from the pain pulsating through his body. Gingerly, he pushes himself upright. “Oh, my Lord. I have lost my pack, my first aid, and my rifle. I have to find some shelter and clean these wounds.” Stumbling in the dark, Jim crumbles next to a tree. Leaning against it, he takes stock of where he is and the approximate location of his vehicle. “The truck should be uphill, and about five miles from here.” In the dark, Jim can hear running water.

Crawling to the small stream, Jim washes his cuts. Removing his jacket, he uses his Case knife to cut his jacket into bandages. Wrapping his wounds, he seeks a place to wait for daybreak. He slowly makes his way to a tree and leans against it. As the night slowly passes, Jim prepares for his journey to his truck. “Surely, someone has reported me missing. Maybe, one of the search parties will locate me before I am eaten by this bear.” As he thinks about the attack, he sharpens an oak limb to defend himself with, should he encounter the bear again.

On the horizon, dawn breaks.

Jim stands to his feet and pushes himself toward his goal. As daylight filters into the woods, Jim slowly makes his way up the side of the hill. Throbbing pain racks his body, but still he pushes on. “Lord, I don’t want to be stuck out here for another night with this psycho bear.” Urged on by fear, Jim keeps moving gradually forward. After what seems like hours, Jim finally crests the hill.

Leaning against a tree to let his strength build up, Jim hears sniffing. Jim turns the oak limb over and grasps the bark. “Whatever happens, don’t let go of your weapon. If today is the day you die, take this bear with you to Valhalla.” Jim turns and the bear stands on its hind legs. With a shout, Jim rushes the bear and drives the sharpened oak limb into the bear’s side. Wounded and bleeding profusely, the bear roars. Angrily, the bear mauls Jim repeatedly, until exhausted from a lack of blood, the bear falls on Jim’s broken body.

Ragged breaths whistle through Jim’s broken nostrils. Cuts bleed freely from his face and torso. Turning his head, Jim starts to chuckle. In the distance, he catches a glint of a windshield. As the sun reaches its apex, Jim’s life slowly drains from his body. He closes his eyes as a last act of defiance.

“Just my luck, I get into a life and death fight a hundred yards from my truck.”

Like this:

“Please, stay indoors. You’re being quarantined for your own protection. We will let you know when its safe to leave your home. Thank you for complying.”

Joe Thunderfall listens to the emergency broadcast and shakes his head. “I didn’t fight over there to be imprisoned here.” He walks into his living room and sits down at his computer. As he pulls up his blog, he is bombarded with news articles and headlines. This new “super-virus” is spreading fear with every new day. A group of Senators have brought forth a bill to help stymie the bleeding of the economy and Joe chuckles.

“Let the game begin!” As Joe places his fingers on the keyboard, there is a knock at his door. “Yeah?” Bursting into his house, his 16-year-old niece throws her arms around his neck. “Hiya, unc. What’s good? You hear about the virus? The Senate is going to end this thing with a vote tomorrow!”

Joe snorts. “Oh yeah? That’ll be a first.” Anna looks at her uncle and scrunches up her nose at him. “You have no faith in the government, do you?” A mirthless grin stretches across Joe’s face. “I believe this, Anna. There is nothing they can’t make worse. Anything they fix is completely broken. Tell you what, they’re voting on it tomorrow. You come over and we will watch it. If it goes through, you can throw it in my face.”

“Deal!” Anna and Joe shake hands and the deal is done. “Until tomorrow, Anna. I need to get this post done.” Anna smiles and nods her head. “Just so you know unc, I am looking forward to telling you, I told you so.” Joe laughs and begins typing.

As Joe finishes his post, the news interrupts Five Finger Death Punch and the lyrics to “Wash it all away” is cut off. “We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news.” Joe listens as the reporter explains why the bill which would keep the economy from completely tanking, has been killed on the floor of the Senate. Laughing, Joe gets ready for bed. “Poor Anna, she has so much to learn about life and the government.”

The smell of fried bacon, potatoes, and hot coffee stirs Joe from sleep. Stretching, he can see Anna standing in the kitchen. “Hey kid, what are you doing here so early?” Anna looks down the hall and then puts sugar in his coffee. “There is no school today. Everything is closed. You were right. The bill never stood a chance, did it?”

Joe walks down the hallway, his GI Joe pajamas are almost too small for his enlarging belly. “Well Anna, you must understand this fact about the government. It is comprised of two types of folk, givers and takers. One group of people worked on the bill and understood we should come together in this time of crisis. They are the givers. Then the other side decided a crisis is a prime opportunity to stuff the bill with things they want for themselves. Their motto is, “screw the little guy.” Guess who they are?”

Anna looks at the countertop. She sighs and mutters, “the takers.” Joe puts his arm around his niece. “Yeah. In times of crisis, our elected officials should work together. Instead, they would sacrifice us all on the altar of greed and political gain. When you reach 18 understand this Anna. Hold the government accountable for what they do. Do not, under any circumstance, surrender your personal liberty for any reason. Because once you give it away, you will not get it back.”

Anna nods. “Why are you so bitter, uncle?”

Joe sighs and sips his coffee. “Because Anna, I have seen the face of our enemy and it is us.”